


Sun and Storm

by thelightofmorning



Series: Destiny of the Aurelii [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Imprisonment, Prequel, Religious Conflict, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Niranye has come to Windhelm to make a life for herself and as a member of the Altmer resistance (and a criminal) with the ability to charm the birds from the trees, she thinks she has it made. But when shadows from her past emerge to destroy what she has built, she finds several unlikely allies, including a Nord who's far more intelligent and charming - and well-connected - than she'd think looking at him. But can even Bjarni Storm-Born survive the wiles of Linwe and the Summerset Shadows? Only time will tell in an Era of dragons and rebellion.
Relationships: Niranye/Original Male Character
Series: Destiny of the Aurelii [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165382
Comments: 64
Kudos: 21





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Headwig1010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headwig1010/gifts).



> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, religious conflict, imprisonment, war crimes, criminal acts, and genocide. A gift to Headwig101 that ties into the new Aureliiverse ‘canon’.

Niranye had two brothers and a grandfather she adored before the Thalmor came. Quaranir had great magical gifts, Fasendil had just become a Quaestor in the Imperial Legion and everyone knew of Rynandor the Bold, whose martial skill was impressive enough to win him renown in a race that valued the intellectual over the physical. In the normal way of things, she would have attended an academy and become part of the mercantile or bureaucratic lifeblood of the Summerset Isles, maybe even gone into politics as she was sweet-tempered, silver-tongued and clever. Life had been good and predictable before the Thalmor came.

Afterwards, when they claimed the credit for casting back the Daedra who invaded during the Oblivion Crisis, life had become cruel and anything but predictable. Her grandfather Rynandor spoke out against the Thalmor and was exiled before being murdered; Fasendil was trapped in Cyrodiil because of his Imperial ties; Quaranir went to the Psijics to restore the Altmer to the old ways. Her parents were fined into poverty and ended their days in one of Sunhold’s slums. And Niranye… Niranye turned to fencing and forging and all the petty ways a clerk could defraud another to survive. She became hard and bitter with a kernel of rebellious pride.

It was as natural that she joined the Tamusen, the resistance against the Thalmor and their Dominion, as it was she gravitated towards the Summerset Shadows – the Thieves’ Guild being driven offshore just after the Oblivion Crisis. Niranye learned to wheel and deal, wheedle and coax, and always, always ingratiate herself to those in a position of power and/or influence. Linwe thought her useful with her middle-class manners and silver tongue, able to soothe the ruffled feathers his lowborn coarseness invariably produced. _She_ thought him an obstacle in her path to influence.

Neither of them counted on the Thalmor watching the granddaughter of Rynandor the Bold closely and sending a Justiciar squad to execute them both for spoiling their grand design. Niranye managed to get away on the literal first boat out of Alinor, a scow that had several evil-looking Redguards and Nords on it, the first humans she ever met. So began her long and illustrious career as a pirate accountant across Iliac Bay and along Tamriel’s western coastline.

It was a century after fleeing the Isles that she washed up on the shores of Eastmarch, staring up at the blocky basalt and granite city that called itself Windhelm. As grim and alien as the Nords who built it, the stones were mortared with merish tears and even in summer the snow didn’t melt. It was also home to the biggest haters of the Thalmor outside of the Tamusen – the Stormcloaks.

“Talos’ balls, what’s an Altmer doing here?” blurted one of the guards in her drab blue wrap. Even the very colours of the world seemed faded in this desolate place and Niranye, used to the balmy breezes of southern Tamriel, shivered as a gust of wind cut through her thin wool cloak. No wonder half the Nords had hair everywhere; they probably evolved it to keep warm around here!

“Fleeing the Thalmor,” she admitted. “Looking to set up shop as a merchant.”

She had her seed money, a gift from Stig, and the ability to kiss almost anyone’s arse. It would be enough if these Stormcloaks didn’t slaughter her out of hand for being an Altmer.

The guardswoman’s companion, a behemoth of a Nord with long sable hair, narrowed eyes of an odd brown-speckled blue-green. “Come into the warmth and show me the sole of your right foot,” he ordered in a subterranean rumble. “The Tamusen are… not unlike us in goal, if not religion.”

They entered an office where a long-suffering female womer – the first dark elf Niranye had ever seen – was working on accounts. “Apologies, Suvaris,” greeted the big Nord with a winning smile. “We just need to borrow a brazier to check our Altmer guest’s foot.”

“Of course, Lord Bjarni,” answered Suvaris. “Even if the Shatter-Shields hadn’t given me the order to cooperate with the Stormcloaks, I’d lend a hand for you teaching Rolff some manners.”

“Thanks,” Bjarni said wryly. “It was worth the night in the Bloodworks.”

Suvaris smiled ruefully. “I imagine the Bloodworks was more pleasant than your mother’s lecture.”

“Amen,” said the female guard fervently. “I think they heard the Stormsword in Atmora.”

Niranye pulled off the shapeless leather bag that served as her right shoe, lifting her foot in the flickering light of odorous horn-lamps. The half-circle and six wavy lines that served as the Tamusen’s sigil were etched in deep golden ink on her pale tawny sole; once you joined the Dawn’s Rising, it was for life.

Bjarni nodded. “Welcome to Windhelm. I’m Bjarni Storm-Born and the ladies are Helga Hard-Heart and Suvaris Atheron. Put that shoe back on and we’ll leave Suvaris to her work.”

“That’s very trusting of you,” Niranye said with some surprise.

“No Thalmor would allow themselves to be marked so, for tattoos ‘degrade the purity of their flesh’,” Bjarni answered dryly. “Besides, I know the first people the Thalmor conquered were their own. I don’t hate Altmer for being Altmer.”

A Nord familiar with the intricacies of Thalmor philosophy and who didn’t automatically hate mer on sight. Niranye wouldn’t have believed it if some drunk spun her the tale in the cheapest pub in Sunhold.

They left the office and Bjarni snagged a wolfskin cloak from an open crate, tossing a silver ring plucked from his hand to the Nord overseer. “Here,” he said, thrusting the cloak at her. “You don’t want to be free of the Thalmor only to become a decorative ice statue in the harbour.”

She took the cloak with a blink. “That’s kind of you.”

“Kind of me? Well…” Bjarni sighed. “I don’t doubt your flight from Alinor was hard and the stuff of tales, but Galmar and my mother will want every bit of intelligence they can extract from you. I need to ask you some questions and some of those questions may be painful. But you will help us fight the Dominion and maybe even the Empire.”

_Ah, information._ She didn’t doubt that Bjarni was a generous man by heart but he was also a pragmatist, which relieved Niranye more than someone just being kind would have. Everything had a price and she intended to extract everything she could from this Nord in return for that information.

“Well, Lord Bjarni, I am neither easy nor cheap,” she said, wrapping the furry garment around herself. “The cloak’s earned you a tale of my trip from Jehanna to Windhelm. If you want the century I’ve spent in exile before that, it’s going to cost you a merchant’s licence and a stall in the marketplace. I can acquire my own goods once I’ve made some contacts.”

“Speak to Revyn Sadri in the Grey Quarter,” he advised as they headed for the dock gate. “There’s stuff he can’t sell in his shop that you might be able to, so you’ll get it for much cheaper than buying from the Khajiit.”

Niranye smiled. “A Nord who knows the ins-and-outs of trading with mer and beastfolk. Isn’t that against your religion?”

“Talos brought people of many different races together as one and…” Bjarni flushed under her regard; the beard made him seem older than his… hmm… early twenties. In human years, he was probably around her age, relatively speaking. But Niranye wagered his life had been less… exciting.

“You can worship Auriel here, so long as it’s the Psijic rite,” he finally said.

“I leave the gods alone,” she admitted with a grimace.

“Wise woman. My mother and brother are priests and they seem to frown on anyone enjoying themselves.” Bjarni grinned. “Come. I’ll get you a room at the Candlehearth Hall and we can discuss this merchant’s licence of yours. Our general merchant has died recently and Sadri can’t afford the market fees so…”

Well, maybe Windhelm would be the place she found her feet and began rebuilding again. At least the Nords weren’t half as bad as she feared.


	2. Intelligence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts, imprisonment, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict. Yes, I know Talos is a dickhead of a god, but just as people interpret other deities differently Bjarni’s entitled to his version.

Sigdrifa Stormsword leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers and graced Bjarni with an approving look he was more used to seeing directed at Egil than himself. It wasn’t that he _meant_ to be his mother’s polar opposite, it was just that Sigdrifa favoured pragmatism and cold ruthless logic due to her Shieldmaiden training and twenty-something years of war instead of trying to forge emotional connections between disparate peoples. She favoured Talos the conquering warlord; he favoured Tiber Septim the unifier of Tamriel. Both versions were needed in the fight against the Dominion, particularly after the bleak picture Niranye had painted of life under the Thalmor. And he knew she was holding things back.

_Probably because a few cups of Alto wine and a week’s stay at Candlehearth Hall isn’t enough to buy her life story,_ he thought ruefully as the silence stretched out in the office. She’d told him of her flight from the Thalmor a century ago, the history of her grandfather Rynandor the Bold and her trip from Jehanna to Windhelm with Stig Blood-Horker, a notorious privateer in service to the Stormcloaks (only because Torbjorn Shatter-Shield paid him a lot). Reading between the lines, he supposed she’d be signing up to join the Thieves’ Guild soon enough, which could be useful as a means of gathering intelligence.

“For once, your habit of carousing with mer has paid off,” Sigdrifa finally said after a drink of water. She was abstemious in her habits, preferring bland foods, cooler temperatures, soft textures (and the comforting weight of her armour) and quiet rooms. Everyone just put it down to her being a Shieldmaiden but Bjarni had noticed Egil was similar, though his tolerance for noise and crowds was greater, and supposed it might be hereditary. Why he didn’t get it, only Talos knew, but it was a good thing someone could handle the social obligations of the Jarl’s family.

“The Jarl’s supposed to be accessible to everyone and that means going to have a drink with them,” Bjarni reminded her. “Like it or not, the Argonians and the Dunmer are here, and they contribute to Windhelm. That means they deserve an audience with the Jarl’s court as much as anyone else.”

“And the fact you prefer sujamma to mead and the company of barmaids to Nord maidens of good birth has nothing to do with it?” Sigdrifa asked, as she always did.

“Mother, Friga’s more interested in the family business than men, Nilsine’s not my type, and Fjotli Cruel-Sea’s seventeen, for fuck’s sake,” Bjarni said with a roll of his eyes. “If a suitable candidate I’m compatible with comes up, I’ll consider it, but I won’t sacrifice my happiness on the altar of duty _just_ for politics. That’s how we get you and Dad ignoring each other but for exterminating Imperials and Thalmor.”

“We do not ignore each other!” she snapped. “He trusts me to fulfil my duties and I allow him to be with Galmar so none of us are miserable! Our cause is everything, Bjarni, and I expect my children to sacrifice no less than I would.”

Well, the hint of approval had well and truly fled, so Bjarni changed the subject before they had another fight. “Niranye needs a merchant’s licence and a stall to operate. She’s got ties to one of the Shatter-Shields’ privateers and isn’t above a little travel to other Holds. If we can have her source certain things for us, it’ll be cheaper than paying Guild fees.”

“A proxy with which to do business with those sewer-dwelling thugs?” Sigdrifa asked. “That could be useful. They’d never expect an Altmer to work for the Stormcloaks. The Day Master told me to go fuck myself when I sent Calder as an emissary.”

“From what I’ve heard, the Day Master of the Thieves’ Guild is a survivor of Karthwasten and lost his father in the Markarth Incident,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “You can hardly blame him for holding a grudge.”

“I’d think a Nord would be grateful to have been freed from the clutches of a heathen faith the way Calder was and work to free the rest of Skyrim from the Empire,” she replied acidly. “If the alternative wasn’t complete anarchy, I’d burn the rats out of their nest and be done with them, but Astrid tells me it wouldn’t work.”

“Calder was going to be made a Briarheart against his will,” Bjarni pointed out. “Brynjolf loved his parents.”

Sigdrifa sighed in exasperation. “Why do you argue with me, Bjarni? I sometimes think you take pleasure in taking the opposite side in a discussion just because _I’m_ the one being sensible.”

“If you think that, Mother,” he said as he rose to his feet, “You don’t know me very well at all.”

Jorleif approved of Niranye’s merchant’s licence and Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was happy to rent out his stall to the Altmer in return for twenty percent of the profits. She’d already purchased a certain amount of Revyn Sadri’s stock and was laying them out on the stall counter when Bjarni approached her with the licence and some spare bottles of Alto wine from the Palace’s cellars. “Your licence,” he said with a smile as he put the paper on the counter. “Leave food and herbs to Hillevi and meat to Aval Atheron. Furs, tools, enchanted items and general household goods will sell better than luxuries, though alcohol is always popular.”

“Revyn and I have an understanding,” she agreed. “He shall stick to the exotica of Solstheim and Morrowind while I trade in everything Nords prefer. In return, we have a drink once a week at the New Gnisis Cornerclub and I bring whatever the Dunmer prefer but desire not to leave the Grey Quarter for to trade.”

Bjarni nodded in approval. “That’s the way to do it. Favours make you friends.”

She raked back her short blonde hair with a wry smile. “An intelligent Nord. Wonders never cease.”

“An Altmer who isn’t a mer supremacist is a pleasant change of pace too,” Bjarni countered dryly.

Niranye laughed softly. “Most of us just wish to live our lives in peace, Bjarni. It’s the Thalmor who want to rule the world.”

“And destroy it,” he said softly. His parents had been explicit about that secret goal of theirs.

She nodded soberly. “Yes. Well, primordial bliss as an immortal in Aetherius sounds more boring than a Vigilants’ drinking party, so I’ll settle for this world and its wonders.”

Bjarni imagined his brother Egil at a drinking party, all frowny-faced and disapproving as he sipped one cup of mead the whole night, and burst into laughter. “Sounds right bloody tedious! If you want a drinking party, come to the cornerclub next week. It’s Suvaris’ party and we’ve imported a Breton brewmaster for the event.”

She looked a little startled, then nodded slowly. “I will. It’s always good to make new connections.”


	3. Butcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, misogyny, genocide and religious conflict. This story (for the most part) takes place a few months before Helgen.

Niranye swiftly discovered that urban Nord life was like and unlike her native Sunhold. The derogatorily named Grey Quarter was the equivalent of the slums, a cesspit of sullen mer who vacillated between railing at the Nords and moaning about how the Nords did nothing for them; Valunstrad was the high-rent district, where the Thanes and other prosperous inhabitants lived; and the Stone Quarter, home of the graveyard, marketplace and middle-class residential district. Windhelm was surprisingly diverse for the hotbed of anti-Imperial rebellion, with several Cyrods and even an Altmer living quite comfortably in the city with no problems. Even Sunhold’s slums, right next to the foreign quarter, had less than a double-hand of humans in it at the best of times.

Rolff Stone-Fist, a man whose florid face spoke of much drink and whose nose revealed several attempts at attitude adjustment by various disgruntled Nords, came by her stall the second day it was set up to abuse her with his friend Angrenor Once-Honoured. Their insults featured much profanity and little imagination, generally revolving around accusations of being a whore, a spy and/or both, and continued for three or four days before Helga Hard-Heart arrived to set them straight. “If Rolff’s brother wasn’t fucking Ulfric Stormcloak, he’d’ve had his arse kicked a long time ago,” the Stormcloak said with a sigh as they slunk off like cowardly dogs. “Sigdrifa promised Bjarni a _week_ in the Bloodworks if he broke Rolff’s nose again, even when Galmar was shrugging it off. So he sent me instead.”

It had taken Niranye a day to discover that her Nord benefactor was Ulfric Stormcloak’s oldest son. That explained the intelligence and education, if not the amazing lack of racism. “I appreciate it, but neither of those two had the wit or imagination to make an insult worth listening to.”

“Look, Bjarni says you’re like an Altmer Stormcloak and that’s good enough for me,” Helga said with a shrug. “Besides, Rolff’s an arsehole. Angrenor got his wounds honourably but the only weapon Rolff’s ever raised was his tongue. He’s a milk-drinker and even Galmar knows it.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how are your lieges taking the presence of an Altmer in their city?” Niranye asked as she began to pack up her goods for the night. Once again she’d sold out of alcohol and made heavy inroads into her stock of clothing, fine tools, furs and crafting materials. With little manufacturing base of its own outside of arms and armour, Windhelm devoured finished civilian goods like a baby did handfuls of candy and even with her rent, she was doing better than she expected. It seemed need was able to overcome prejudice in many cases.

“That brand on your foot and the intelligence you gave Bjarni’s won you a lot of tolerance, if not liking,” Helga answered. “You’re not acting arrogant and you’re being polite. That’ll win you a lot of friends among the Eastmarchers. They like it when mer kiss their arses.”

“You’re not from this Hold?” Niranye asked curiously.

“Oh no. I’m a Paler with a Kreathling father. I learned to survive from my mother and how to hunt from my father.” Helga patted her bow, a blocky weapon of harshly carved lines that glinted of quicksilver-ebony alloy. “Earned this from the Jarl himself after killing an Imperial Praetor at two hundred paces with an iron arrow and a hunting bow.”

“It’s certainly a unique weapon,” Niranye agreed.

“Totemic bow. See – the limbs are dragons or hawks, depending on how you look at them.” Helga removed her bow and pointed out the salient features. “Short of ebony or Daedric or legendary stalhrim, this is the most powerful bow a Nord can get. The Shieldmaidens used to be the only ones to make them. Now, there’s only Sigdrifa, and she couldn’t hit a cow’s arse from two paces away with someone calling her shots and painting a big red target.”

Niranye laughed politely, though she thought it unwise to insult the Jarl’s wife in such a manner. “Are you going to Suvaris’ birthday?” she asked, changing the subject.

Helga shook her head. “Nope. Sujamma gives me terrible heartburn. I don’t know how Bjarni can scull the stuff.”

“Practice, I suppose.”

The house Niranye was renting was tucked within the city wall itself near Ysgramor’s Gate, where most visitors to Windhelm entered through. “You didn’t have to accompany me,” she told Helga. “It’s not that far a walk.”

“Bjarni’s orders,” the guard answered. “Someone found a butchered Khajiit in the alleyway behind Calixto’s house two days ago and yesterday the Argonians reported one of their lasses was missing. Bjarni’s trying to get a guard on every woman or womer who travels alone at night in the city, but Sigdrifa’s swearing we don’t have the manpower.”

“Thank you,” Niranye said softly. “But why does Bjarni care so much?”

“You’re the first Altmer he’s met who isn’t a forelock-tugging stable-hand, a crotchety alchemist or a Thalmor about to die painfully,” Helga said dryly. “Bjarni’s greatly fascinated by other cultures and he treats everyone as he would a Nord – with honour and respect. His parents have no clue how many riots and brawls he’s stopped by being decent to the Dunmer, for instance.”

“If more Nords were like him, the Stormcloaks would have a lot of allies,” Niranye noted.

“Indeed.”

They reached her home and Helga lingered until Niranye was inside with the door locked. Just how bad had the two murders been that she was taking such precautions?

The next day, Niranye found out when word went around the marketplace that Friga Shatter-Shield, Torbjorn’s heir and daughter, had been butchered in Valunstrad not ten paces from her house Hjerim. Bjarni, his face flushed with rage, was going around asking questions of all and sundry but receiving no practical answers beyond ‘unusual tools were used’.

“You may examine my goods to see if any of them match the ones used on… well,” Niranye said loudly as mutters sprang up in the crowd. “If they are, I will go through my books to find who I sold them to.”

“Helgird says they were embalming tools,” Torsten Cruel-Sea answered with an ashen face.

“Oh dear and blessed Aedra,” Niranye said, feeling the blood drain from her face. “That… doesn’t sound good.”

“You sold some?” Torbjorn demanded angrily. “After I rented-“

“No!” Niranye yelled as the mutters turned ugly. “I wouldn’t sell such things! My brother, he’s a mage, and I remember him telling me that embalming tools were often used in ritualistic sacrifices by necromancers. I don’t even sell grand soul gems, for Auriel’s sake.”

Tova vomited and fainted, just saved from bashing her head on the cobblestones by a rangy sun-blond Nord who wore the bearskins of a ranking Stormcloak officer. “We better get Wuunferth on this,” he advised Bjarni.

“We’ll see what he can do, but a necromancer’s handled better by Egil,” was his response. “My brother’s a Vigilant in all but name… and the chief justice of Windhelm. This monster will be run down and sent to Molag Bal. I swear it by Talos.”

Torbjorn’s expression was sick. “I need a drink,” he mumbled.

“Ralof, get them home and speak to Helgird about a proper funeral,” Bjarni ordered the blond Stormcloak. “I want two guards patrolling each district and every woman or womer escorted home at sunset. Keep an eye on anyone lurking around after dark, particularly in the isolated parts of town. Someone assign some guards to the Grey Quarter and the docks too. Warn the Khajiit-“

“Your mother will belay those orders. You know the fyrd’s been called,” Ralof interrupted softly.

Bjarni swore savagely. “I just need a few damned days until Egil returns from the Rift!”

“You won’t have them.” Ralof sighed. “Your father left for Solitude this morning, Bjarni. It’s beginning.”

“What’s beginning?” asked Niranye softly. Good gods, a ritualist necromancer was running around. She’d better hire a guard or shut up shop earlier.

“The liberation of Skyrim,” Bjarni said grimly. “May the gods have mercy on us all.”


	4. Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for alcohol and drugs. Taking ‘A Night to Remember’ and having fun with it. Sigdrifa is doing a live action version of ‘The Scream’ as I write. Also, no drunken sex was had, I promise.

The New Gnisis Cornerclub was bedecked with the scarlet, gold and amber lanterns of the Dunmer, hung with their tattered banners of ochre, rose and indigo and flowing with the fiery drinks that they quaffed like water. Much to Niranye’s surprise, Bjarni wasn’t the only Nord there; a bulky grizzled veteran in fine garb, a pretty blonde whose modest dress belied her smile, and even Torbjorn’s daughter Nilsine attended the birthday celebration. Revyn spotted her and waved her over to the table he shared with Aval, who sold meat and other animal products that weren’t leather or fur, a lanky mer with a resemblance to Aval and Suvaris herself. “Welcome to the only place worth drinking at in town!” laughed the slate-grey mer. “Bjarni’s paying for the drinks, so feel free to order up.”

“So you’re the Altmer who’s been trading in the Stone Quarter,” observed the lanky mer. “I see you’ve learned to get along better with the Nords than _some_ I could name.”

“It’s their land, their rules,” Niranye said with a shrug as she took a seat. “Besides, none of us are particularly fond of the Thalmor.”

“She’s Tamusen,” Suvaris confirmed. “A… Stormcloak, I suppose, but Altmer.”

“We hold true to the Old Ways of the Psijics,” Niranye told her. “To find our own way off this mortal coil and rejoin the Aedra, not drag everyone else kicking and screaming into Oblivion as Daedra. Er, unless that’s what you want, of course.”

“Life is a struggle and in mortality we prove ourselves worthy of divinity,” the lanky mer said mildly. “But today’s my sister’s birthday, not a time to discuss theology or philosophy or whatever.”

“Indeed.” Niranye produced the gift she’d brought, a mantle of frost-troll fur pinned with a copper brooch from sunken Balmora. “Troll isn’t the softest fur but it’s among the warmest. The brooch has Muffle and Stealth enchantments on it so you don’t attract that damned Butcher.”

“That what they calling the killer? Yrsarald came in and turned my shop upside down looking for necromantic stuff until Bjarni reminded him we burned our dead, not used embalming tools,” Revyn said with a sigh as Suvaris took the mantle. “He hasn’t gone after any womer yet, but watch your back. I saw what he did to the Argonian girl.”

“Thank you,” Suvaris said with a smile. “Please, feel free to order drinks. This Breton brewmaster’s very good. His sujamma tastes almost like home.”

“Almost?” asked a rough-voiced Breton in a dark robe who was mixing all sorts of concoctions at the bar, Ambarys Rendar sitting back with a flagon in one hand and a pipe of trama root in the other.

“You added something to the brew,” Suvaris pointed out. “I’m feeling quite mellow at the moment.”

“Of course you are. It’s one of my secret ingredients.” The Breton smiled broadly at Niranye. “So we got ourselves an Altmer. Thought you lot were too good to party with us peasants.”

“I’ve never been to a drinking party before,” Niranye confessed.

His smile widened. “Oh, we’re gonna have some fun! Here’s your first drink, my dear!”

It tasted like… summer in Alinor when the breeze blew through the jacaranda trees and smelt of jasmine, hibiscus and the sea. Before Niranye knew it, she’d downed the whole lot and held out her mug for another. This man was surely worth his inflated fee.

Somewhere between the summer drink and one that tasted of salt and smoke, Bjarni joined them, delivering a copper bracelet in the Chimer style to Suvaris with a bow. He was clad in vivid saffron, indigo and a startling blue-green that brought out the hue of his eyes, long sable hair braided neatly back. To one used to saturnine mer and grizzled sailors, he really was an exotic creature indeed. “Sweet-tongue enchantment. Wring some more septims out of that idiot Endario,” he advised Suvaris with a grin.

It was odd how the dour, surly Dunmer not only tolerated Bjarni but welcomed him nearly as much as they did the grizzled veteran Brunwulf or the pretty blonde Susanna. There was some hesitancy but it was more along the lines of concern for his rank instead of his person.

“I shall,” Suvaris promised with a hiccup. “Thank you for the party.”

“After Rolff, least I could do,” Bjarni said with a shrug. “Egil’s delayed in the Rift – something about vampires – and so making that bastard pay you wergild will take longer than I thought.”

“A Nord pay a Dunmer wergild?” Faryl, Aval and Suvaris’ brother, asked in disbelief. “No judge will let it happen!”

“My brother’s practically a priest of Stendarr,” Bjarni said calmly, accepting a drink from the brewmaster, whose name was Sam. “He judges on merit, not on race.”

“Oh yes, he’ll show mercy while insulting our religion,” Faryl pointed out.

Bjarni nodded. “I know. He’s an arse. But he’s a just one.”

“Ulfric won’t overturn it?” Niranye asked, hiccupping herself. Sam’s drinks were really quite good.

“By accusing Suvaris of being a spy and making threats to her, he insulted Clan Shatter-Shield,” Brunwulf explained soberly.

“Look, can we stop ruining the lady’s party and wasting my drinks by talking about justice, politics and other tedious things?” Sam asked in some annoyance. “I’m going to challenge you all to a drinking contest. Whoever wins gets a very nice staff!”

Niranye smiled. “Is it worth a lot?”

Sam grinned. “It’s very, very rare and expensive. I think you’ll like it if you win it. So who’s up for the first drink?”

“I am!” Niranye said eagerly.

…

“Wake up!” Something was hitting him over the head. “Wake up!”

“Fuck off, Egil,” Bjarni groaned as light seeped red past his closed eyelids. “Go judge someone somewhere else for a change.”

“Ugh,” groaned Niranye next to him. “Did we win the staff?”

Bjarni woke up and sat up immediately. He was stark naked in the middle of what looked like a temple of some description with Niranye right next to him, bare as the day she was born. A scattering of objects surrounded them and there was a very unhappy priestess wearing an Amulet of Dibella smacking him with a pillow.

“Wake up! That's right, it's time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer!” she ordered.

“Unh, my head,” groaned Niranye.

“Yes. Your head hurts and you don't remember where you are. I'm guessing you also don't remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage or a goat. Which means you don't remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple,” said the priestess acidly.

Niranye collected herself with admirable speed and turned a practiced smile on the priestess. “I'm sorry, I don't even remember how I got here.”

That smile, which was stunning, worked on the Priestess of Dibella. “Well, you were deep in your cups when you got here. You were ranting but most of it was slurred. You said something about Rorikstead.”

“Rorikstead?” Bjarni’s head was pounding like a war drum but it finally dawned on him he wasn’t in Windhelm anymore. “We were in… on the other side of the country!”

“Dibella teaches love and compassion, but that doesn't mean we're just going to tell you what you want to know and let you walk away from this. Pick up your mess, then apologize, and if we think you're sincere we'll consider lending you aid,” suggested the young woman calmly.

“We don’t have any clothing,” Niranye said weakly. “Whatever Sam brewed, it had to be good.”

“Sam Guevenne… Son of a bitch!” Bjarni swore as he stood up, cupping his hands modestly before him. “We were drinking with Sanguine!”

“Yes, we noticed that,” the cleric observed sardonically. “Dibella teaches us forgiveness, after all. Even for drunks like you two. Clean up this mess and I’ll find some clothing for both of you.”

They obeyed and found a note that had a list of ‘materials’ that the staff needed. “Giant’s toe,” Bjarni said with a groan. “Oh fuck me, what did we do last night?”

The cleric emerged with a set of hide armour and a homespun dress. “This should fit you two. You might want to keep your head down, big guy. You look a little too much like the Stormsword to be welcome in Markarth if one of the Forsworn recognise you.”

“Get him homespun and we’ll just say he’s a blind pilgrim,” suggested Niranye coolly. “It’s mostly the eyes that give it away.”

“Oh. You’re one of the Storm-Spawn. Wonderful.” The priestess flounced off in disgust, leaving the room.

“Don’t worry,” Niranye said soothingly. “We’ll catch the carriage back to Windhelm. Then we find Sanguine and have words with him.”

“You’re taking this well,” Bjarni said with a sigh.

“Screaming at the gods changes nothing. We leave this place and return home.” She studied the note. “So, Rorikstead and a goat. We need holy water, a giant’s toe and a Hagraven feather. Whatever we did last night, it must have been interesting.”

“Mother’s going to kill me,” Bjarni groaned. “I went drinking with Sanguine and woke up naked with an Altmer!”

“There’s something wrong with that?” Niranye asked pointedly.

“Uh no, but gods, both parents will disown me or have you killed…”

“I survived Naarifin’s hunters. Sigdrifa and Ulfric are amateurs,” Niranye said sweetly. “You know… you’re not that bad-looking for a human, if you like muscle and hair.”

“Keeps you warm at night,” Bjarni said, blushing. “You’re… Your skin is like sunlight.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.” She smiled. “Let’s get dressed and get out of here. I think the priestesses will be as happy to see us go as we will be to leave.”


	5. Goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, drugs and alcohol. I won’t be mean to Bjarni and make him deal with Markarth’s political situation.

Niranye was no mage, not when compared to Quaranir’s undeniable talents or even Fasendil’s skill with Destruction, but it didn’t take much to jolt a would-be assassin with Sparks until he dropped the dagger he intended to stab some hapless Cyrod woman in the back with. He screamed “I die for my people!” just as the Hold guards made short work of him, leaving everyone stunned and speechless at the sudden violence. For her part, she’d heard it was bad in Markarth, but to see the reality…

…Not her problem nor yet Bjarni’s. Waking up naked in the Temple of Dibella had been startling but not displeasing when she saw humans weren’t that dissimilar to mer where it mattered. Getting drunk with Sanguine was certainly an experience she’d never expected to have. Quaranir would be besides himself in embarrassment.

“You saved my life!” babbled the Cyrod woman as she thrust a necklace of intricate silver links set with fingernail-sized emeralds into Niranye’s hands. “Please, take this. I was going to give it to my sister, but you deserve it more.”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking it into the breastband the Dibellans had given her. She could pay for the carriage with it since the jeweller likely wouldn’t buy it back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, me and my husband need to go-“

“Oh, of course!” The Cyrod got out of the way quickly and Niranye took the blindfolded Bjarni by the hand to lead him out of the city. Some Reachman tried to accost them but she simply walked past him.

Outside, she breathed a sigh of relief, one that was echoed by Bjarni. “So those stories of Forsworn murders in the streets were true,” he rumbled soberly as she guided him down the stairs. “And the Jarl does nothing.”

“Your father doesn’t do much in the streets of Windhelm,” Niranye pointed out. “It’s mostly you and that Yrsarald.”

“Justice and maintaining the city is usually Egil’s job but with Father in Solitude for the Moot…” He sighed again. “When we get back, I’m hunting the Butcher down and feeding him to the horkers.”

They didn’t need to wait long for the carriage to Whiterun, which would trundle through Rorikstead, and Bjarni removed his blindfold as they climbed aboard. The driver agreed to accept the emerald necklace with a smile, making change with a medium-sized pouch of septims, and they settled in for a long slow ride as he clucked at his horse. Even the Forsworn left the carriages alone after Imperial reprisals that echoed the Markarth Incident for brutality.

“Been some doings in Solitude,” he remarked as they went along. “Ulfric Stormcloak challenged the High King to a duel and Shouted him to pieces.”

Niranye gave the man a startled glance. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Torygg was an ass and I’m a good Talos-fearing man,” the driver said simply.

Bjarni sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “So it begins. We’d hoped Torygg would be amenable, but…”

“Shouting an untrained boy to death seems a little excessive,” Niranye noted.

“I know.” Bjarni looked troubled. “I can only imagine what Kodlak and the Companions would have to say about it.”

It took the better part of a day to reach Rorikstead, the sun a bloody disk to the west and the sky streaked red and amber. They farewelled the driver and headed up towards the inn, the heart of village social life, and found themselves accosted by a lean Redguard in farmer’s garb.

“You! You've got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again. What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry?” Niranye asked carefully. Oh dear, she hoped they didn’t do anything drastic.

“Sorry's not good enough! Not while my Gleda is still out there, alone and afraid. You kidnapped her and sold her to that Giant,” spluttered the Redguard.

“Giants prefer mammoths,” Bjarni said confusedly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that so? Does the name Gleda ring a bell? The star beauty of my farm? Kidnapped by a pair of drunks and sold to a Giant? You'd better remember her right fast, before I call the guards and have you hauled away,” retorted the farmer.

“Alright, alright, that sounds bad,” Niranye said soothingly.

“You're damned right it does. I'll never breed another prize-winning goat like Gleda! And don't you think of coming back to Rorikstead until you get her back from that Giant,” he said, pointing in the direction of the tundra.

“Look, we’ve just had a long journey, we’re starving and tired, and I need another fucking drink,” Bjarni rumbled. “Tomorrow, we will track your goat or pay wergild for her, but tonight we’re sleeping at the pub.”

“Old Holder mer-fucking son of a bitch!” swore the farmer.

“Ennis!” snapped an older womer with the coarse features of someone from Alinor’s peasant class. “Watch your language!”

“But Gleda!” he protested.

“Get these two to hire that Redguard mercenary at the Frostfruit Inn and let them deal with the giant,” she said soothingly. “But watch your language. We’re farmers here, not soldiers.”

Niranye and Bjarni took advantage of her chiding to slip into the inn before he could yell at them again.

The Frostfruit Inn was fairly standard for a village pub, little more than a glorified cottage with rushes on the floor, spilled mead in the air, and everyone staring at them. Whatever they did with the goat had to have been spectacular to draw such incredulous looks. The only one not shocked was the Redguard mercenary, an athletic man with long fine braids in the Forebear manner and startlingly blue gold-stained eyes who wielded some sort of bladed spear. “So you’re the goat-nappers,” he said amusedly. “I’m for hire at two hundred septims if you don’t want to pay three hundred for the best milch goat in Whiterun.”

“Done!” Bjarni said quickly. “But tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”

“Must’ve been one hell of a wedding party for you two,” the mercenary continued. “I’m Rustem.”

“Niranye and Ilak,” Bjarni said tersely. “Seems I’ve heard of a warrior who goes by your name.”

“I have a certain amount of fame in certain circles,” Rustem said dryly. “I’ll meet you at dawn outside of Cowflop Farm. The giant’s not that far away.”

Mralki, the innkeeper, had a spare bed for ten septims and offered bowls of thin vegetable soup, coarse rye bread and flagons of house mead for another ten. His son Erik, a red-haired splinter of a lad, was talking to Rustem about the glories of being an adventurer as Niranye and Bjarni ate slowly. That discussion ended with Rustem encouraging Erik to join the Companions of Jorrvaskr and throwing a pouch of coin at Mralki to persuade him to let it happen.

After an awkward night crammed into the same bed together, they left the inn with heels of bread and slices of cheese, finding Rustem waiting for them in front of the farm where Ennis and Reldith already worked. An eerie blue-white line led from the warrior’s hand into the distance.

“There’s a bounty on this giant anyway I planned to collect and since you deprived him of a toe in return for the goat, he’ll be easier to kill,” he said as he pulled an Orcish greatsword from his pack and tossed it to Bjarni. “You can borrow that, Storm-Born. You’re Nord enough to handle two-handed weapons.”

“You know of each other,” Niranye said as they left the village.

“His mother and I are acquainted.” Rustem’s voice was tight with suppressed anger. “We don’t get along for any number of reasons.”

“Does anyone actually get along with Sigdrifa?” Niranye mused.

“Why are you helping me?” Bjarni asked the Redguard.

“Because you’re a good kid with a lousy mother,” was his reply. “I don’t take out my grudges on kids.”

The giant was, as he said, close to the village and Gleda the goat seemed unharmed. Niranye used Calm to keep the beast docile as she led it away while the two men engaged the limping giant. It wasn’t a battle, it was a massacre, as the two showed a supreme talent for brutal and efficient violence that matched any pirate or Thalmor soldier she’d ever known. As Bjarni used Battle-Cry to make it flinch while Rustem cut the tendons in its knees with a negligent swipe of his bladed spear, then split its head in two with another. Much to her surprise, they cut the toes off as some gruesome trophy.

“The fungus has some medicinal properties,” Bjarni explained as they did their grisly work. “It’ll fetch us some good money in… wherever we need to go next.”

“I heard something about you owing Ysolda in Whiterun,” Rustem observed. “I’m heading in that direction anyway, so I might accompany you. I could use some amusement on the road to Falkreath.”

Bjarni nodded tightly. “What are you planning, Rustem? You wouldn’t be in Skyrim if you didn’t have a plan.”

“It’ll help the Stormcloaks, I promise,” Rustem said with a bright empty smile. “That is if you can capitalise on it.”

Ennis welcomed back his goat with glee and confirmed that yes, they’d come from Whiterun ranting about something and a wedding. Niranye was beginning to be a little concerned about this mentioned ‘wedding’… and why she had automatically claimed Bjarni was her husband. Sanguine wouldn’t marry an unsuspecting couple, would he? Did his cultists even marry?

Hopefully they’d get some answers in Whiterun.


	6. Whiterun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, drugs and alcohol.

Rustem Aurelius (or ibn Setareh al-Bruma, as he preferred) was quite possibly the greatest fighter outside of the Companions Bjarni had ever seen, wielding his naginata with the ease of a veteran and the casualness of one experienced in violence. He was in superb physical shape for a man in his early sixties (or someone much younger, for that matter) and was more complex than the boorish adulterous thug that Sigdrifa claimed he was. Egil would have hated him for the insults he’d given the Stormsword, his constant talk of drinking, fighting and fucking, and his complete lack of mercy for his enemies. Bjarni regretted he’d never really get to know the man.

It was a long walk to Whiterun, even cutting across the plains, and they detoured on three occasions to clear out dens of bandits, vampires and wild animals. Bjarni’s hide armour was replaced with a good set of chainmail, Niranye found herself clad in mage robes, and all three of them had considerable packs of sellable loot by the time the trade city was in sight. “Ysolda sells a lot of exotic things,” Rustem said as they neared the farms that provided Balgruuf with his prosperity. “So whatever you bought, it had to be good… and expensive.”

“Given Sanguine’s influence, it could be anything from exotic liquor to an obscure amorous device,” Niranye said with a sigh. “I shudder to think of what we’ll face when we return to Windhelm.”

Rustem grinned. “Whatever it’ll be, I wish I could only see Sigdrifa’s face.”

Over the course of their journey, in between executing bandits and skinning animals, Bjarni had learned the story of Rustem and Sigdrifa’s disastrous marriage. To give the Redguard due credit, he didn’t spare himself in the retelling of the saga, but it only reinforced Bjarni’s complete desire to avoid a marriage of political convenience. The lives that had been affected by the animosity between his mother and her first husband ran into the hundreds, if not thousands, including his own.

That being said, Rustem was as emotionally stunted as Sigdrifa in his way, though he did seem to have greater self-awareness and regrets about the whole matter.

“Thanks for the help,” Bjarni said shortly. “Good luck in… whatever you’re doing.”

“Good luck in explaining to your parents why you married an Altmer,” Rustem said with a broad grin. “If I hear shrieking from the east, I know it’s your mother’s reaction.”

With a laugh, he strode towards the gate, ignoring the Khajiit importuning him from their caravan site.

“Oh dear,” Niranye murmured. “If we got married…”

“It doesn’t count until it’s consummated and no matter what Sanguine put into our drink, I’d remember fucking you,” Bjarni reassured her. “Let’s sell this stuff to the Khajiit, dispose of what’s left in Whiterun, pay this debt to Ysolda and then catch the carriage back to Windhelm.”

He kept the good dwarven axe for himself but sold everything else, both of them amassing a tidy sum of septims from Niranye’s sweet tongue, one that impressed the Khajiit enough that Ri’saad invited them to camp with them for a night to celebrate a fine trading coup. Since Ysolda wasn’t anywhere to be found, they did that to avoid the awkwardness of sharing another bed.

“You might have accidentally married an Altmer while drunk after partying with Sanguine,” Ri’saad said after they shared lavender tea sweetened with a pinch of moon sugar. “This one should charge admission to your mother’s reaction.”

“Only if we receive a cut of the profits,” Niranye countered with a smile. “Speaking of cuts, how’s the Guild going? I hear they’re having a rough patch at the moment.”

“Mercer Frey has offended something powerful but despite it all, the Guild’s prosperity is waxing,” Ri’saad replied, pouring some more tea like a good host. “This one received a sweetener from Tonilia and so his caravans will move certain goods for them. An Argonian woman is their new rising star – Neela-Tai. This one remembers her from Bruma. Mercer Frey will not be Guildmaster for long.”

“Good. I hear the man’s more crooked than a back-country lane,” Bjarni observed. From the cookfire came the scent of roasting meat – they’d thrown in all the game meat as a gift for the hospitality, as no city dweller would eat wolf or bear – and Khayla was preparing to serve up slices with fried potatoes in a creamy tomato sauce. It was a far cry from last night’s awful vegetable soup.

“That he is. Bryn would make a good Guildmaster but he has no desire to lead,” Ri’saad agreed. “So, tell this one how you two met? A good tale makes dinner tastier.”

The next morning, they found Ysolda shopping in the Plains District, and her first words on seeing them didn’t forebode well: “So, you're finally back. Look, I've been patient, but you still owe me.”

“We can pay you for whatever we owe you,” Niranye said with a sigh. “We had… a rather drunken adventure.”

“It's not about the money, really. I wouldn't have given you the wedding ring on credit if you weren't so obviously in love. But if there isn't going to be a wedding, the least you can do is give the ring back. That was one of my best pieces,” Ysolda answered with a glance between the pair of them.

_What did we do?_ Drunken wedding – or engagement – and goat-stealing, messing up a Temple of Dibella… Ulfric was going to come home from the Moot with a shitstorm on his hands and Bjarni would never hear the end of it. Neither would Skyrim when his mother got going.

“Here’s the payment for the ring,” Niranye said, counting out about half their remaining coin and throwing in the uncut gems that they’d found in Halted Stream Camp.

“Decided to go through with it then? I knew you couldn't have forgotten about your own wedding. You spoke of each other so glowingly. I don't know much about Witchmist Grove but it sounded like a lovely place for the ceremony. Congratulations,” Ysolda said with a bright smile.

“Thanks,” Bjarni said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

“You must have had a wild night if you can't remember that,” Ysolda laughed. “Congratulations to the pair of you. I’m sorry to have missed the wedding – your friend Sam was the best man and your guests sound like interesting people! And how lovely of Catriona to perform the ceremony.”

“Thanks,” Bjarni said again. “We’ll let you know when we find the ring.”

They couldn’t leave Whiterun soon enough. Catriona was a Reacher name – and if anyone would perform a Daedric marriage ceremony with Sanguine as the best man, it’d be a Reacher.

“I wanted to rebel against the Thalmor but marrying the son of Ulfric Stormcloak might have been a bit drastic,” Niranye said as they struck out for the road to Windhelm. No carriage went near Witchmist Grove. “Not that you’d make a _bad_ husband, but…”

“Oh, I’m not offended,” he assured her. “My parents are going to be pissed off enough with me doing this on the precipice of a war. If we’re actually married, I’d be disowned… or at least spending an extended amount of time in the Bloodworks.”

“I was just getting settled in Windhelm, making the right friends… Now I’ll have to relocate to Riften and start all over again,” Niranye said mournfully. “I hope Sanguine’s happy, wherever he is.”

Given the events so far, Sanguine was probably enjoying the show with a good drink and a fine meal. Bjarni didn’t know if he could punch a Daedric Prince in the nose but he’d like to give it a try with ‘Sam’.


	7. Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, child abuse, genocide and religious conflict. The Amulet of Jhunal comes from my mod ‘Ancient Amulets’ at Skyrim SE Nexus.

“How many fucking bandits are infesting this place?” Bjarni demanded after piking the head of the last offending party on a spike at Valtheim Towers. Displaying the heads of violent criminals and other social desirables seemed to be a universal human trait from High Rock to Hammerfell, Niranye mused as she looted the corpses. In her days as a pirate clerk, she’d gotten used to despoiling the dead, experience which served them well now. Even with the cost of the carriage and the ring that had gone missing, she’d earned a good thousand septims and now had a selection of jewels that would help her relocate to Riften if necessary. She really ought to contact the Guild and set up an account there, so that they had a fence in northern Skyrim. That is, of course, Sigdrifa didn’t have her killed for accidentally marrying her eldest son.

“Enough that if we manage to keep that peddler’s horse, both of us will bring considerable loot back to Windhelm,” she told him with a smile. Alas for the poor peddler that ran afoul of the Valtheim bandits – Bjarni had buried him – but she wasn’t arguing at the goods they’d salvaged. He should have hired a guard. “We’ll be fine, Bjarni. These lot were amateurs compared to the Blood Horkers.”

“We should return to Windhelm immediately, but I want to have words with Sanguine and this Catriona,” he said, washing his hands in the stream. “My Clairvoyance spell tells me she’s in the Aalto. Plenty of alchemical components there and it’s warm what with the hot springs and all.”

“Then we go to the Aalto,” Niranye said with a smile. “But I think we’ll overnight here. No need to let a good bed and food go to waste.”

“True enough. I think we can have a bath too. I’m startling to smell a bit pungent and it’s not like we’re living in Telengard in the winter.” He rummaged in the peddler’s saddlebags for some soap and then went back down to the river, stripping off his new steel armour and the garments he’d acquired in Whiterun to pad them. He was barrel-chested, heavy-shouldered and thick-thighed with the body hair that she was fairly certain Nords evolved to stay warm in their icy climate like bears and sabre cats had fur. Compared to lean, relatively hairless mer… she rather liked it.

_Thanks, Sanguine,_ she thought irreverently in the direction of the Daedric Prince as she finished looting the last of the bodies before rolling them into the big pit Bjarni had dug, pouring the keg of sour mead and several bottles of inferior wine on them, and using Flames to set the whole lot alight. There was no need to insult the gods by letting the dead lay untended to breed disease and worse, not when she could cast Flames for very little energy and get the job done.

Bjarni handed her the soap before going to check on the horse, make sure it was tethered, and then go upstairs in the tower to turn the bandits’ food into something acceptable. He was actually a decent cook, as demonstrated last night when helping the Khajiit prepare the evening meal, and something she didn’t expect from a Nord noble. So she washed herself and her clothing with soap, water and some grooming spells while he prepared dinner.

The next morning, they were approaching the road to the Aalto when an ashen-faced Nord came down a path that led to the foothills of the mountain Bjarni called ‘The Throat of the World’. “Lord Bjarni! The Nine have answered my prayers!” he said. “There’s a dark elf necromancer profaning Hillgrund’s Tomb and my Aunt Agna went in there alone!”

“Golldir… Darkwater Crossing, right?” Bjarni asked, his eyes sharpening.

“Yes.” Golldir, a blond lout who smelt of pine resin and wood shavings, gave Niranye a dubious glance. “Please, I need your help.”

“Why aren’t you in there with her?” Niranye asked scornfully.

“My father got drunk once and locked me in the tomb for three days when I was a child! I had to eat the offerings for the dead!” Golldir yelled. “Who the fuck are you-?”

“Easy, Golldir,” Bjarni interrupted. “Niranye’s a friend. Agna should have sent to Windhelm. Yrsarald would have dispatched the fyrd to handle it, even if the tomb’s technically in Whiterun.”

“He was threatening to drag my ancestors from Sovngarde and make them his slaves,” Golldir said with tears in his eyes. “I know I’m a cowardly milk-drinker, Bjarni, but please help us!”

Bjarni heaved a heavy sigh and nodded. “Will you be able to help us? Niranye doesn’t have a lot of magic.”

“Fire can kill undead effectively,” she told him. “So long as we’re doing the sensible thing and sneaking around, not clanking about like heroes in some outlandish saga.”

“I can fight,” Golldir said sombrely. “I only pray Aunt Agna’s safe.”

Niranye tethered the horse to the nearest tree once they were up at the tomb. “I never did understand Sovngarde,” she confessed. “I know it’s a big deal to you Nords, but…”

“You know how in that _Old Ways_ book the Psijics speak about souls becoming Aedra after death?” Bjarni asked as he tightened his steel greaves. “Well, Nords who die bravely become the honoured dead who serve Shor in the Hall of Valour and await the end of days, where we will prove our last best worth against Alduin World-Eater. They can communicate with mediums… and some necromancers can drag those blessed spirits back into Mundus to serve them.”

Niranye gave him an appalled stare. “They’re forcing Aedric spirits to… to…”

She finished tethering the horse and grabbed the two magicka potions they’d found at Valtheim. “That’s blasphemy. Let’s go and teach this Dunmer a lesson. Let’s sneak up on the bastard and surprise him with an axe to the face.”

“Niranye’s Tamusen – an Altmer who fights the Thalmor,” Bjarni explained to a stunned Golldir. “They follow the old Altmer beliefs that all souls were once gods and that if they live well, they can become gods again after death. Sovngarde is a bit like that.”

“Oh.” Golldir shuddered. “No wonder she thinks I’m a milk-drinker. We better hurry. Aunt Agna’s furious.”

They surprised a few draugr, none of which were particularly dangerous, and found Agna about to try and breach a magically barricaded door with her axe. “Don’t!” Niranye yelled. “That’ll get you killed!”

“Lord Bjarni and his Altmer friend’s here to help, Aunt,” Golldir said as the woman, older and worn from years of hard work, spun around. “She’s sort of like a Stormcloak, except she worships the old elven gods.”

Agna nodded tightly. “That bastard Vals Veran is raising Hillgrund and saying disgusting things about how the dead serve in Morrowind. Sick Dunmer bastard that he is. Rolff might have a point or two-“

“The only undead that traditionalist Dunmer permit are more akin to ancestors whose spirits protect their descendants,” Bjarni interrupted gently. “Vals is breaking his own people’s laws if that’s the justification he’s using. Though, I admit, the more ruthless mer consider any non-Dunmer dead fair game for necromancy. None of those live in Eastmarch though. I’ve made sure of that.”

“We’ve got a Dunmer living in Darkwater Crossing. We even have an Argonian,” Agna said with a sigh. “You’re right, Lord Bjarni. You can’t judge everyone by one person.”

She nodded to a hidden door. “Follow me. We have a tomb reserved for the nithings that gives us another entrance into the main catacomb.”

“Still good with a bow?” Bjarni asked as they entered the side tomb. “If we surprise the bastard…”

“I have poisons if you have arrows,” Niranye offered. “Magicka-draining ones no less.”

“My bow broke.” Agna sighed. “I’ll use one of the draugr ones. It will do if I can nick the bastard.”

The draugr weren’t particularly dangerous and soon enough, Agna had a bow and arrows that Niranye liberally coated with magicka-draining poison. “What works on a Thalmor Justiciar works on a necromancer,” she assured the Nord. “A couple arrows and he won’t be able to replenish his magicka fast enough to stop you killing him.”

Agna’s grin was savage. “I like you, elf.”

Vals Veran was ranting about how Sovngarde was a myth and the dead should serve the living and all sorts of blasphemies when they burst into the chamber. Bjarni roared his Battle-Cry (which Niranye learned was a form of Shout like Ulfric could do) and the Dunmer froze in fear long enough for Agna’s arrow to catch him in the eye. Golldir rushed up the stairs and smashed his head in with his axe, screaming in rage and fear. Well, if it helped him process his feelings, good for him.

The draugr stirred but Agna said something in a guttural tongue and they retreated back into their tombs. “Dragonish,” she admitted. “Hillgrund was a Thane to High King Olaf One-Eye and the Jarl gave him an honourable burial with full honours. That included teaching us the words to summon our ancestors to defend us or the tomb.”

She climbed up the stairs and plucked a strange axe of rough blue material from the hand of the most heavily armoured draugr. “Ice-Strike,” she said, examining its pale blue surface. “Hillgrund’s personal weapon. I want you to have it, Lord Bjarni.”

“A stalhrim axe?” Bjarni asked in awe. “Are you certain?”

She nodded. “I am. I’m sure we can find something in the grave goods for Niranye. We had a couple Clever Crafters among our ancestors.”

“Will your ancestors mind?” Niranye asked carefully. “I have no desire to disrespect them-“

“They are in Sovngarde and beyond caring,” Agna said as she opened a door to lead them into another chamber. “It is only tomb raiders who need fear the wrath of the Hillgrundssens.”

Bjarni hung the strange blue axe at his hip, stroking its leather grip in awe. “Stalhrim is priceless,” he murmured to Niranye as Agna began to rummage in a chest of grave goods. “It’s enchanted ice and we’ve lost the art of it in Skyrim. My mother has a stalhrim amulet and it’s the most precious thing she owns.”

“Let it not be said we haven’t aided in the fight to free Skyrim from the Empire who would destroy our most ancient ways and gods,” Agna agreed, fishing out a whale-ivory talisman carved in the coastal Nord manner. “Ah, here we go. Amulet of Jhunal. Will protect you against enemy magics and help in other ways, I was told by my father.”

“I… Thank you,” Niranye said, accepting the amulet and putting it on. She could feel her magicka returning faster. “Who’s Jhunal?”

“Old Nord god of magic,” Bjarni told her. “I know you’re more of a merchant than a mage, but…”

“But everything helps.” Niranye raked a hand through her hair. “Now we need to find Catriona in the Aalto.”

“The old witch? She lives near Eldergleam Sanctuary,” Golldir said. “Aunt Agna, I owe Lord Bjarni life-debt. I would travel with him to discharge it.”

“Very well,” Agna said gravely. “You’re brave enough when not facing the dead.”

Golldir laughed ruefully. “I’ll make a better woodcutter and servant, you mean. But the debt must be honoured.”

“Yes, it must,” Bjarni said calmly. “If you don’t mind the fact we’re trying to piece together some Daedra’s trick, you’re welcome to come along.”

Golldir shrugged. “What Daedra could stand against the firstborn son of Ulfric Stormcloak wielding the axe of my ancestor Hillgrund? I will pay the debt.”

Niranye had spent years among pirates, many of whom were Nords, and two weeks living among the Nords of Windhelm but for all of her experience, she’d never quite gotten what they called honour. Honour, she felt, was something that really didn’t exist outside of the stories because every honourable mer she’d known – her grandfather, her brothers, numerous members of the Tamusen with more courage than sense – had been murdered or exiled. So she focused on cleverness and cunning and survival.

But for honour, Bjarni had detoured from his own quest to assist one of his people, and for the same honour said man would follow him into a Daedra’s lair. Niranye understood loyalty, insomuch as it didn’t contradict survival, and she was honest enough to admit she felt great gratitude and even attraction for Bjarni.

Somehow, she thought she understood the Nords a little better now, and why the Stormcloaks – not the power-hungry idiots like Sigdrifa Stormsword – fought the Empire who had betrayed their gods and loyalty.

“You two are welcome to your honour, but it’s obvious that I’ll have to come along and provide some common sense,” she said lightly as the two men clasped their forearms in the Nord manner of sealing a word-bond. “It’s an ugly job, but someone has to do it, and it might as well be the mer.”


	8. Hagraven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict.

When someone felt a debt of honour, a true Nord always allowed them to fulfil it, and that was how Bjarni wound up with his very own follower. Golldir wasn’t a hero or even a half-decent fighter, but he was strong, courageous (when not confronting draugr) and most importantly loyal. Bjarni wouldn’t – couldn’t – scorn someone like that just because he was a landless churl.

They travelled with Agna down to Darkwater Crossing where the pine forest met the volcanic tundra of the Aalto before breaking off to go north to Eldergleam Sanctuary. Golldir led the peddler’s horse they’d rescued at Valtheim Towers, the beast now laden with the better arms and armour from the bandits that killed its former master and other loot, and had been given a steel battleaxe to replace his iron weapon. Aside from the odd wolf, the Aalto was relatively quiet, the giants sticking to their camps and most creatures finding the place’s acidic fruits and foliage not to their liking. They collected jazbay, dragon’s tongue, creep cluster and mountain flower to be made into potions, for with war begun every cure would be needed to supply the Stormcloaks. Bjarni could only hope that his parents were well-prepared, because he would have preferred a year or two more. But he supposed they could only wait so long.

Finding goat’s heads in a small grove near Eldergleam Sanctuary, the place where Golldir swore Kyne rested after breathing humanity down from the sky at the Throat of the World, was a good indicator they’d located the mysterious Catriona. She was a Reacher, alright, and probably a Hag because those goat heads had a malevolent curiosity in their dead eyes. “Hold the horse,” Bjarni ordered Golldir in a soft voice. “If we don’t come out in a few hours, make for Windhelm as fast as you can to alert my father or Egil.”

“Not needed,” croaked a voice from the shadowy boughs of the pine trees. “You and your wife are safe here, lad. Your friend too.”

“You married a _high elf_?” Golldir blurted. “They’ll hear Sigdrifa’s screams in Atmora!”

“I got drunk with Sanguine and woke up naked in the Temple of Dibella with Niranye,” Bjarni explained as the foliage rustled. “We’ve been trying to figure out what happened ever since.”

Niranye’s hands twitched as a bent old crone, clad in a feather-trimmed grey shawl and dusty-black robes, emerged from the grove. “You’re… I can sense the Illusion,” she said tightly. “I guess you’re the source of the Hagraven feathers we need to fix Sam’s staff and the holder of a very expensive wedding ring.”

The crone shimmered and became a creature combining the worst aspects of an old woman and a bird, though taller and paler than the one Hagraven Bjarni had seen as a corpse in Whiterun several years ago. Her eyes were a pale green and there was something familiar about her in the austere lines of her features. What Nord woman, even a Reacher, could become a… a…

“Matriarch,” Catriona finished with surprising gentleness. “I made sacrifice to Hircine to protect my people – my pack, if you will – in ways that I couldn’t as the cousin of Madanach mac Feredach or the betrayed wife of Dengeir of Stuhn. When Sanguine paid a visit and told me he was going to set my grandson up with a womer who suited him perfectly, how could I not pass up the chance to meet him and perform the ceremony?”

Shocked silence greeted her announcement and she gave a raspy chuckle. “I suppose I’m grateful you didn’t reach for your axe.”

“My grandmother died giving birth to my mother,” Bjarni whispered.

“That’s what they told you. In reality, I left Dengeir the day he sent my daughter to the Shieldmaidens in defiance of the bargains he’d made with Lost Valley Clan. He’s very good at breaking promises, old Dengeir, and Stuhn will call him to account one day. _He will not see Sovngarde._ ” It wasn’t a threat, snarling and vicious; it was a cold deadly promise.

“Well, your grandma’s a Hagraven. Explains the Stormsword,” Golldir finally said in a shaky tone.

“No,” Catriona said with a sorrowful sigh. “The Shieldmaidens and the Blades made my daughter the monster she is today.”

Niranye reached over and squeezed Bjarni’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” the womer murmured. “We all have _interesting_ relatives.”

“Good lass,” Catriona said approvingly. “You and Bjarni are a good match.”

Bjarni’s legs gave way and he fell to the ground, just catching himself before his face hit the dirt, and the Hagraven was quickly kneeling beside him. The back of her wrist, in the age-old ritual of mothers and grandmothers everywhere, was cool against his forehead. “No fever, just shock,” she said with some relief. “Oh Bjarni, I wish you didn’t have to learn about me like this. I should’ve… Well. I should’ve done better.”

“Yes, you should have,” Niranye snapped. “Marrying a pair of drunken idiots wasn’t the best idea, particularly when the mother of one of those drunken idiots will try to have the other one killed! I don’t know what goes on in a Hagraven’s mind but maybe, just maybe, you should have considered that this wasn’t the greatest idea to begin with!”

“I hear that a lot,” Catriona said, closing her eyes. “I just wanted to meet one of my grandchildren, okay? Do you know what it’s like to know you can’t ever go near one of your relatives for their own safety?”

“Given I have a brother in the Psijics and another in the Imperial Legion, yes, I do,” Niranye countered, her tone gentling. “You can cast Illusion, Catriona. You could have sneaked into Windhelm and met Bjarni at the cornerclub. You’d be surprised what he can accept after a couple flagons of sujamma.”

Bjarni buried his face in his hands and took a few deep breaths to settle his roiling emotions. Catriona was a Daedra-twisted monster from the pits of a Nord’s worst nightmare but her tone rang with truth and conviction. And she did, if someone squinted, look a lot like Sigdrifa with the austere lines of her face and the pale eyes. “Mother won’t hurt you, Niranye,” he promised. “This… well, we haven’t consummated everything, so the marriage isn’t valid. Sanguine’s had his prank and his laugh. Let’s just pretend it was a crazy trip across Skyrim and get back to Windhelm.”

“Get your arse to Morvunskar and get that damned staff off Sanguine first,” Catriona advised dryly. “He owes you that much.”

Bjarni was startled into a laugh. “If I walk into the Palace of the Kings with a Daedric artefact, _Egil_ will scream louder than Mother.”

“Yes, he is rather… rigid. Of you three, only Laina took it pretty well. Of course, her other granma’s a vampire.” Catriona pushed back some of her stringy grey-black locks. “I have the ring. You two seemed so happy together, laughing and smiling, that I thought you’d found true love. Don’t let Sanguine fool you; he’s a big softy at times when it comes to true love found in unlikely places.”

Bjarni knew he had a sister that was thought dead for several years until Ralof came to Windhelm one summer and reported her existence. He’d never really given Callaina – Laina – much thought because she was Imperialised to the point of just being a tall Cyrod, though he regretted the fact he’d never get to meet her. But Catriona had sought her out, introduced herself to her, all because the Hagraven valued family. And twisted monster or not, that was a Nord trait.

“You’re Forsworn, aren’t you?” he finally asked.

“I am,” she confirmed. “I helped Madanach rise to power… and failed him in front of the Mournful Throne because I couldn’t blast my own daughter. I’ve never really been forgiven by the other Matriarchs and most of the Reach. I can’t really blame them.”

“That makes you a true Nord in my eyes,” Golldir said stoutly. “Most of us remember the Three-Winter Famine, ma’am. You’re a better, uh, person than your daughter.”

“You’re a good lad,” Catriona told the churl with a smile.

With Niranye’s help, Bjarni got to his feet, and Catriona stood up herself. “I-I…”

The Hagraven smiled sadly. “It’s okay, Bjarni. I understand if you don’t have the words.”

“Grandma,” he finally choked out. He had a grandma.

He then embraced her and the grove was full of her weeping. Who knew Hagravens could cry?


	9. Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, drugs and alcohol.

Niranye squeezed Bjarni’s shoulder as they left Witchmist Grove, laden with supplies the Hagraven had collected over her time spent there, and headed towards the fortress of Morvunskar. “Your grandma’s not a bad woman,” she said gently. “Hagraven or not.”

He nodded with a sigh. “I know. I never had much respect for Grandfather before but now I have none. Falkreath really deserves a better Jarl. Thadgeir won’t take the job and Siddgeir’s an Imperial lackey, so it’ll have to be someone else. Me or Egil, probably, since we’ve the closest blood connections.”

“What about your older sister?” Niranye was the first to admit that she didn’t know Nord inheritance laws but wasn’t it generally the eldest who inherited? That was how it went in most other civilised places.

“Laina?” He heaved a heavy sigh. “She might not be the Cyrod puppet I feared she was but she’s also too politically unreliable to be given the Stag Throne in Stormcloak eyes. Throw in the fact she’s an open mage and a member of the Synod… No, no one would vote for her as Jarl.”

“Stormsword pretended to be virgin when she went to your da’s bed. Somehow, that don’t surprise me,” Golldir observed. “She’s good at justifying what she wants to do.”

“My father knew. It was a political match and Grandfather Hoag wasn’t going to approve of a divorced ex-Shieldmaiden marrying his beloved only son,” Bjarni explained. “Let’s go get this damned staff from Sanguine and head home. I’ve been absent long enough and we’re about to go to war.”

They crossed the Aalto and reached the White River Road, which Morvunskar apparently overlooked, just as a double-line of Eastmarch guards led by a dark-haired man in bearskins marched from Windhelm in the distance. “Bjarni!” he yelled, voice cracking like a whip across the distance. “Where in Talos’ name have you been? Your mother’s frothing and your father isn’t happy.”

“Went drinking with Sanguine and wound up halfway across Skyrim,” Bjarni admitted with a rueful laugh. “Is it safe for me to go home or should I go do something heroic like collect the heads of a hundred Imperials first?”

The commander shook his head. “Only you, Bjarni, only you. Egil’s returned from the Rift; he’s saying that there’s increased vampire activity in western Skyrim but we need to worry about the war above all else. I’ve been dispatched to set up a camp in Whiterun.”

Bjarni nodded. “Fine, Hjornskar. Maybe Balgruuf will find a shred of honour and join us. Talos knows we’ll need his brains in this war.”

“Why? He’s a gold-hungry son of a bitch,” Hjornskar said incredulously.

“Wars are won by gold and that’s something neither of your rulers have a head for finding, holding or using,” Niranye told him. “Balgruuf, for all his flaws, is an excellent trader and diplomat.”

“Niranye. She’s Tamusen – Altmer version of a Stormcloak,” Bjarni said, jerking his thumb at her. “Sanguine has a warped sense of humour because he sent us both along on his little fetch quest.”

“Huh. Didn’t think the elves would have rebels,” Hjornskar observed.

“The first people the Thalmor conquered were their own. My grandfather was one of the first martyrs of that rebellion,” Niranye informed him. “We better get going. Can’t keep the Jarl waiting.”

“Brace yourself,” Hjornskar warned. “Sigdrifa’s ready to kill something.”

“She’s ready to have Calder kill it for her, you mean,” Golldir said sardonically. “Never seen that woman do an honest day of work or killing in her life.”

Hjornskar nodded in reluctant agreement before marching off towards Whiterun. Bjarni sighed and looked up at an outcropping of rock. “Morvunskar’s up there. Let’s sort out Sanguine and then return home.”

A coven of Conjurers had set up shop in the old fort, too drunk and drugged to resist Bjarni’s use of Illusion to get them to fight each other, with him and Golldir bashing the heads in of any too sodden or injured to fight. Niranye didn’t even know the Nord _knew_ Illusion, given his kinfolk’s dislike of sorcery, but he had a deft hand for it by mer standards. By Nord standards he was probably the greatest Illusionist in the Old Holds.

“Dear gods, they’ve been blaspheming a shrine of Dibella,” he remarked on seeing a desecrated idol of the goddess. “Grandma said that Sanguine worshippers tried not to pick fights with Dibellans.”

“We were sent here for a reason,” Golldir said, looking around. “You go looking for Sanguine. I’ll loot the place clean. Hopefully your parents will be pleased with what you’ve brought back.”

“Me too,” Bjarni agreed. “Niranye?”

Being transported to Sanguine’s plane of Oblivion hadn’t been in the plan but as the misty grove, filled to the brim with revellers performing all kinds of debauchery, filled her vision Niranye realised that this place was familiar.

“You're here! I was beginning to think you might not make it,” Sanguine, now wearing his more usual form of the red-and-black Dremora, said with a laugh.

“You sent us on quite a trip,” Bjarni said, hooking his thumbs into his belt in a gesture that Niranye knew meant anger.

“I thought you might not remember your first trip here. You had a big night. I think you've definitely earned the staff,” Sanguine answered with a smile.

“Goat-napping, an illicit marriage and a meeting with Bjarni's long-lost grandma, not to mention desecration of a shrine of Dibella and clearing out your renegade cult. Yes, I’d say it was a big few nights,” Niranye agreed with a sharp smile. “Remind me never to go to one of your drinking parties again, Sam. I might wind up back in Alinor.”

“Oh, darling, I’d never do that to you. I prefer all parties in the debauchery to be consenting… and they’re a bunch of sick puppies in the Dominion.” Sanguine pulled out a long staff of thorny black ebony, topped with a perfect ruby rose set with diamond dewdrops. “For you. Consider it a wedding gift.”

“We have all the things needed to repair it,” Bjarni said tightly.

“Oh, the Hagraven feather and so on. You can throw all those out. You see... I really just needed something to encourage you to go out into the world and spread merriment. And you did just that! I haven't been so entertained in at least a hundred years.” Sanguine grinned and tossed Niranye the staff, which she managed to catch.

“We didn’t consummate the wedding, so it doesn’t count,” Niranye told him. “Not that Bjarni isn’t attractive, but I’d rather not be killed by the Stormsword for ‘corrupting her son’. But I suppose you don’t care since this was just a prank to you.”

“Just a prank? Just a prank? The Daedric Lord of Debauchery does not deal in mere ‘pranks.’ This may have begun as a minor amusement, but it wasn't long before I realized you'd make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy staff,” Sanguine said firmly. “Besides, you and Bjarni are perfect for each other, and those idiots were getting Dibella riled up. Catriona got to see one of her grandkids. Ennis even got his goat back. Skyrim’s going to be rather depressing for the next few months and so I thought I’d spread a little joy to get you through the rough times.”

“Why did you choose me?” Niranye asked.

“Let's be honest, here. I don't always think my decisions through. But you... you're going places. Maybe a little influence from your old uncle Sanguine could help adjust your course a bit...” Sanguine rubbed one of his curling horns. “You don’t want to consider yourself married, that’s your call, but believe me when I say you two will need each other in the coming months. Ulfric unlocked rather more than a war when he killed poor young Torygg, Molag Bal’s got something on the boil in Haafingar – dreadful fellow, he is – and Skyrim’s going to get rather _noisy_ in the next few months. Dibella approves, if my word means nothing.”

“Thanks, I think,” Bjarni said sardonically.

“My pleasure. But I think it's time for you to go. No fun keeping you locked up in here with the staff.”

And with that, they found themselves outside Morvunskar, with Golldir stuffing the last of an entire array of intoxicants into the horse’s saddlebags while drinking from a bottle of mead. It was time to go home.


	10. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, religious conflict, war crimes, criminal acts and genocide. Now the fun really begins! As a side note, my posting schedule will be erratic until about the 7th as I scored a new place to live, so I’ll be moving.

After seeing the Dwemer-built grandeur of Markarth and the bright prosperity of Whiterun, Bjarni was forced to admit that Windhelm looked so… shabby. Everything was drab, many of its inhabitants had hollow cheeks, and the only things that gleamed were the steel weapons given to every Stormcloak recruit. Something to worry about when the war was won. Everyone was preoccupied with throwing out the Empire.

Yrsarald met him at Ysgramor’s Gate, expression grim. “Your parents want to see you _now_ ,” he ordered tersely. “I hope your little trip was worth it.”

“I have intelligence from Markarth and Whiterun, there’s one less band of Daedric worshippers in Eastmarch, and I brought back a packhorse laden with steel arms and armour, a hearthman of my own and a variety of things that might prove useful to the healers,” Bjarni answered with as much calm as he could manage. Both of his parents united in anger. This wasn’t good.

He turned to Golldir and Niranye. “Golldir needs a uniform and Niranye will need some help getting her share home. I’ll see you two tomorrow. You don’t want to be near the Palace of the Kings tonight.”

“We’ll hear it all anyway,” Niranye answered with grim humour. “Just remember, I can lend a hand if you need to break out.”

“Thanks,” Bjarni said dryly.

He and Yrsarald entered the city, walking past Candlehearth Hall and the Temple of Talos. “I can confirm something is going on with those vampires Egil was investigating,” he told the fyrd commander. “Sanguine hinted that Molag Bal was planning something in Haafingar.”

“You trust a Daedric Prince?” Yrsarald asked.

“I trust him in conjunction with the intelligence Egil received from his Vigilant friends.”

“So your little drunken trip didn’t addle your wits, at least. I suppose that’s something.”

Bjarni chose not to dignify that with a comment.

Ulfric and Sigdrifa were in the war room, both clad in armour and grim as a winter in Atmora. Egil, wearing his usual blue and brown, was standing at the other end of the map-table with a concerned expression. “You deign to join us at last,” rumbled the Jarl of Windhelm. “What possessed you to-to…”

“No one expected Sanguine to be serving drinks or to find it amusing that a Nord and an Altmer go on a trip across Skyrim,” Bjarni said calmly. Now that battle was joined, relatively speaking, he wasn’t so nervous. “Are you going to bitch and moan at me or are you going to make use of the intelligence and weaponry I’ve brought back? One wastes more time than the other.”

Egil sucked in a shocked gasp and Sigdrifa scowled all the more darkly but Ulfric smiled in cold grim amusement. “Glad to see you’re on board with our fight for freedom, son. I was worried you were getting too friendly with the mer for your own good.”

“Niranye’s a major source of intelligence concerning the Thalmor’s subjugation of their own people, so you better get used to her being around,” Bjarni told his father bluntly. “She has knowledge of smuggling and other useful activities which may serve us. She even served for a time in the Blood Horkers.”

He wasn’t going to let his father’s hatred of the mer drive away someone who’d become a friend.

“We have plans,” Ulfric said tersely. “I want you to persuade Eastmarch’s citizens to dig deeper to support the cause. I want every Stormcloak to wield a steel weapon or better. The officers will require totemic weapons-“

“Bandit extermination,” Bjarni said firmly. “The amount of steel weaponry I found on the ones Niranye, Golldir and I encountered was… considerable.”

He pushed past a still-silent Egil to point to various fortresses in Eastmarch. “Brunwulf was saying there were bandits up hard by the Morrowind border. We clear those nests out and bring back the arms and armour for Oengus to repurpose, that will secure our border _and_ provide more resources.”

“Not bad,” Galmar in the corner said approvingly. “So which of you two will handle that?”

“My cavalry’s more mobile,” Egil said softly. “About the increase in vampire activity-“

“Alert the Vigilants. Sanguine implied Molag Bal was planning something in Haafingar,” Bjarni told his brother. “Apparently there’s no love lost between them.”

“Daedric Princes rarely cooperate,” Egil said soberly. “But I’ll let the Vigilants know. Keeper Carcette’s concerned enough that she was asking if I could come to Hjaalmarch to investigate something Brother Addvald found. My cavalry can deal with bandits on the way.”

“No. The war comes first,” Ulfric said firmly. “With a few hard pushes, the corrupt Imperial Holds will fall and Skyrim will be free.”

“It’ll take more than that. Your… actions…” Bjarni chose his words carefully, “In Solitude alerted the Empire. Rikke’s no fool and she’s a match for Mother.”

“But she’s just a Legate Primus. The Imperials will send one of their own to be supreme General,” Sigdrifa said harshly. “He won’t take her suggestions.”

“Don’t underestimate the Empire,” Bjarni warned.

“Don’t assume we don’t know what we’re doing,” Ulfric countered softly. “You may have found some maturity in one of Sanguine’s bottles, but we have planned for this over two decades. We move because we are ready to throw the Empire and its faithless dogs out of Skyrim, then take the fight to the Dominion!”

“And I’m not some churl you’re convincing to trade a shovel for an axe,” Bjarni pointed out. “The die is cast and that can’t be changed. But don’t assume I’m not aware of the military situation. The Old Holds aren’t united, not as you’d like, and the Imperial Holds are better organised. This will be Oblivion’s own fight. I hope we’re ready.”

Someone in the family had to question everything and so far, it fell to him. Ulfric was convinced Talos would hand him the victory, Sigdrifa was convinced that her plans would always succeed, and Egil obeyed their parents. Someone had to be sensible around here.

“I will focus on cleaning up Eastmarch, then expand to the other Old Holds. We need to convince the churls and franklins that we can protect them as well as the Empire. Banditry and worse is already rife.” Bjarni folded his arms. “We need a stable foundation before we make a new world, Father. Surely even Mother can see that.”

“Fine,” Ulfric said flatly. “I suppose we’re not quite ready to take Falkreath anyway.”

_So that was the plan._ It had been an open secret that Ulfric intended Egil to follow him as Jarl of Windhelm – and High King of Skyrim by extension – but to have been dispatched so soon to Falkreath… Bjarni wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Fine,” he agreed. “So, where’s a list of every bandit stronghold in Eastmarch? Egil and I have a lot of work to do.”


End file.
